Asger Dybvad Larsen, Julie Stavad, Iben Zorn

29.08.2015 - 20.09.2015
At the woosh of a rock, a window is scattered and a fence jumps on to a separate train.
The manifestation of a sound into something physical. 

A ripple. Fragments trying to piece together a sentence that will ultimately dissolve as we pass.
It hit you below the middle. Chasing the question, filling your stomach with instant coffee.
Searching for somewhere to plug in your ears on a table 
now pulsating.

Drew still waiting. Clinging to the faint mumble of your back pocket.
A whistle. Whipping the air. Distracting us from getting snug.
Tongue crooked. Taking over from a soundproof shell.
The crackling of gravel pit - run over by our conversation.
A wink that will propel its way into a bleached doubt. 
Taking cover at the clasp of hands.